Les Cours

Le Petit,

Given the number of years (15ish) that I've studied French and the amount of time (a handful of summers, a semester in college, a month here and there) that I've lived in France, my current proficiency in the language is pretty appalling. So once again, I've placed myself in French class, this time with little Megan Marion by my side. Our class is composed of 30 students: 27 Moroccans, 1 Japanese woman, and us. Our Moroccan professor rather delights in bringing up (making fun of) America (us) as much as he possibly can. Last week, we were in the middle of a fascinating lecture on the names of various vegetables when, seemingly out of nowhere, he gestured towards me and Megan and said, "In America, most people are very obese because they only eat McDonald's... Julia, have you lost weight since moving here?" Well, Teach, that was indeed another smooth-as-butter transition to putting down Les Etats and the answer is NO, thank you very much, I'm currently having a wild love affair with pain au chocolate and lamb tagines!! You can take the girl outta MN...

Anyway, I typically don't mind his frequent taunting as he does so in a good-natured and humorous way. Last night, however, things got a little heated dans Lycee Vic-Hugo. He was teaching us agreement and opposition phrases, like "I totally agree with" and "I am opposed to." La Prof decided to use the subject of abortion as an anchor for the lesson and prefaced it by saying that everyone should feel totally at ease discussing the topic as the excercise was not at all on how we actually feel about this issue, rather simply how to correctly use our agreement and opposition phrases.

Evidently that was only true for people who utilized the opposition phrases. With the exception of one other girl, the entire class was vehemently and categorically opposed to abortion. When the teach asked me and Megs to agree or disagree, and we both explained that we thought it was the right of the woman to choose, the class took a quick left turn. The teach and students alike bombarded us with non-sentence-structure related questions... "What if the woman just does it because she does not want to be fat?" "So, you don't think you are committing murder?" "How can you say this is not a crime?" While I sweat bullets and turned a marvelous shade of scarlet red, we tried our best to defend ourselves in broken French until the bell finally rang... "Next week, we will discuss divorce," announced the professor, as he turned towards us with a slightly inquisitive glance but somehow fully aware that we are indeed products of a 100%, good-ol' American divorced family. Next week sounds totally awesome!!!







What's one more Big Mac...



Julia Andrus Kelly

9 AM TECHNO, INSPIRED!

I have uploaded photos again. I am done being lazy. Here is the extended caption to the recent past.

We meet teenage Harry in a museum. Realized our common Minnesotan roots. He cooks us tomatoes and in return we let him stay at our house. We take turns posing with the Berber gun he has been given in the mountains and have four bottles of wine. Even I have over my two glass max. We go, with Harry and Barry, to Ben Youssef Madersa, the former Koranic school. It was built in 1570 but later completed by the Saadians, could house 900 students in little tiny dorm rooms that all overlook the insanely intricately tiled courtyard. College! Posed there for awhile, took lots of details pictures of tiles and went to eat crepes. Went to Essouira the next day, the start of the beautiful relationship between Julia and Pascal. And the end of my brief relationship after I realized a wife had not been mentioned to me.
We do laundry and go horseback riding with Mehdi, which means I can finally dress equestrian with reason. We meet Fred and go to his house in Ouilidia. The trip was not documented, but then the next week we go to the lake, which is. The lake is dirty, but lunch is good and after we go hunting for scorpions. This is before I find out that Fred is in a relationship that he forgot to mention, before I earn my well earned title as Mistress Megan of Marrakech.
Fred and Mehdi play tennis and I watch, the good mistress that I am. I make a new German friend, who loves activities, and we go to the tanneries. Imagine the worst smell you have ever smelled. It smells worse (sulphuric acid, pigeon shit, fish oil, the dead animals, obviously). Now I know how my leather is dyed though. Our guide described to my German friend in Arabic French the virtues of natural versus chemical dying, and though I understood little I was sold and will only buy the most naturally dyed products from now on.

Death by ketchup

Darling Denis,

I am attempting to enjoy my free period a l'ecole after a rather brutal turn at lunch duty. A few times a week, I "watch" the "children" while they "eat lunch" in the olive garden. While the vacant olive garden itself is quite pleasant, the complete and utter pandemonium that ensues at the stroke of noon totally destroys any innate tranquility of this hellish garden. At one point, a 3rd grade french girl was grinding my left leg as she belted out the hilariously incorrect lyrics to Rihanna's Umbrella and my OLD-fav 2nd grade student, Youssef (who had quite unfortunately for me, found a bottle of ketchup to play with) made a game of sneaking away to pour the red condiment all over his arms, legs, or face and then attacking me full on as he shrieked at full volume, "Meeeeeeess Keeellllly, I've been shot and I'm bleeeeeeding to death." The only death that I'm aware of is the demise of the adorable white and tan Thread dress I borrowed from my sister to wear to work today.

A bloody mess,


La Prof.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder?

Dearest Denny,

The blog has suffered but surely not as much as I have in the last week. I am recovered, but I have suffered from a stomach ailment that is too disgusting to describe and still expect our six followers to read on. Since our last entry, we have moved in to our new home and it is lovely. Last night we had a big rain storm and our home is a bit flooded, but besides that it is bug free, cat free, snake and scorpion free and has a beautiful terrace.

In my spare time between bathroom runs, I have named the cats that live on our new street. Be sure that if you have been at all loyal in reading, one of the less mangled, non- rabid (?) cats in Marrakech now unknowingly bears your name.


Mohammed IV
Mohammed V
Hassan II
Tom
Pascal
Arnaud
Tara-bel
Charley
Baily
Julia
Claudia
Owen
Kelley Kelly
Erikelley
DJ Andy
Soon to be Madame Mollie
Mohammed III
Moulay Rashid
Fantan
Foultran
Monsieur Twombly
Habiba
Harira
Fatima
Yasmine
Agadire
Frere Thomas

Did I forget you? There are plenty more cats and soon will be some kittens living in the dumpster outside our house.

xo,
Megan

Jules, what is this shack?

Dear Denis,

There is simply no excuse for our lack of communication, and I fear that if I tell you we've been passing the last few days eating oysters beach side where one can hardly find a good Internet connection, you might not donner moi un pardon. So, let's agree to move on without dwelling on the minor details.

My dad is coming to Marrakesh to visit his petites filles in a few weeks, which means that Megs and I must enter into a highly intensive study of each and every building, street, museum, landmark, gallery, person, historical fact, bakery, etc, before he arrives. Let me explain the ways of TMK Jr. You know how many 5 year-olds have this insatiable curiosity about everything around them, and hardly a moment passes without "what's this," "who's that," "why is this like that," and so on and so forth? Mon pere is kinda like this wildly inquisitive child and feels the need - really almost compulsively - to know everything about everything and everyone in his sight. A typical example...If I don't know exactly the purpose of a random building we pass by in New York, how many occupants it holds, what the occupants do for a living, how much the rent might cost for an office space in said building, and what existed in the space before the building was constructed, dad will be angry, ashamed, confused, and massively upset for the waste of money he spent on my education.

I think if I dedicate my next few weeks to beefing up on my African history knowledge and map out very carefully planned walking routes to take with him, I can pull this off slightly unscathed... "Oh, that run down shack? Why dad, I believe that it used to be an olive stall in which approximately 7 merchants sold the Moroccan delicacy -- called "zitoun" in Arabic -- that comes in both a wrinkled black variety and a green, lemony one and is a fav in all Moroccan cooking and though it is obvious that this shack is currently vacant except for the 17 street cats crawling around, my very educated guess is that in 4 months, a Moroccan man named Admal will purchase the shack and turn it into a marvelous souk from which he will sell all sorts of wonderful herbs and spices for about 20 durhams per half lb and the up to the second exchange rate between durhams and dollars is 7.5 to 1."

Yeah, we're in troubs.

Warmly,
Julia

Ingenues have all the fun

Gorgeous boy,

Brother Kelly, don't read this.

Our fair little Marion was proposed to last night. I joined Megan for the initial part of her date with one of her many restaurant owner suitors. We'll call him Momo and please refer to our flickr pictures of our adventure to the lemon farm if you would like a visual of said suitor. I had a drink with Mimi and Momo before they were to share a romantic candlelit dinner des poisons et vin. During the drink, Momo proposed to ME that we start a travel agency together and I would gather people from the states to visit Morocco and he would secure hotels and desert adventures and such for the visitors upon arrival. I accepted my proposition without hesitation. After I left, he gave Megan a different and slightly more romantic proposition of entering into a serious relationship that would soon lead to marriage. After a brief hesitation, Megos said she was here to spend time with her older soeur and would feel terribly if she entered into a serious relationship and left me all by my lonesome. Momo replied matter-of-factly that I could move in with them, and have my own room downstairs and that would be that.
The young ingenue is currently considering the engagement and weighing out her several options as I research the various online travel package deals and what competition my new biz faces. It's cool.

Just another day,

Julia Andrus Kelly

Your concern touches me

Dear Denny,

I am glad to know that you noticed our absence in the blogoshpere, since at times I am convinced that you have forgotten me completely. We returned yesterday from yet another beach vacation, this time to Essaouira. Essaouira is a lovely beach town that was a haven for the export of sugar molasses and the anchoring of pirates during the 16th century. Jimi Hendrix also visited, which is a real point of pride for the city. We decided to go with some friends that work at (okay, own) a restaurant down the street from us. On our way, we drove directly into a storm, and could not see one foot in any direction. I almost threw up from fear and Julia almost threw up from car sickness. When we arrived, several terrifying hours later, at our little beach side hotel we had a nice meal of fresh fish (prepared over a fire right in front of us), salads and wine. Then the four french people we were with smoked 500,000 cigarettes and we all went to bed.

The next day we rented four runners (really not sure if that's what they are called), and raced around the beach and through the sand dunes. Had I not been so utterly scared the day before in the car, this may have been the most frightening part about the weekend for me. Then we went to a little shack on the water where there were tons of stray dogs, one little puppy and several attractive Europeans getting stoned and eating seafood. We (not Julia and I) picked out the fish and crabs that we wanted killed for our feast. Julia went swimming in the ocean and I played with the puppy and a couple of camels. Since we stayed about twenty minutes away from Essaouira, we didn't really get to see much of the city. We went in only on our way back to Marrakech, but for our new European friends, visiting a city means only entering, finding the first nice food establishment and ordering more food and wine while exploring the city from the rooftop.

But since the actual town is supposed to be rather charming, I think we will return in a few weekends.

Love,
Megan Marion

My name is Julia and it is a pleasure to meet you.

Chere Saint Denis,



Mon petit enfant, brace yourself, there are mentions of nudity in the following letter...



There are several ways to get to know your new co-workers... The more timid might meet for lunch in the faculty lounge and swap tales of unwieldy students, perhaps the more gregarious might take the happy hour route and let loose over a few margaritas and a plate of nachos. Personally, I like to get naked with my new colleagues and allow older Moroccan women to beat the crap out of me.


So, I really should have looked into what a hammam was more carefully before accepting the invitation to go to one with several co-workers who I did not know at all. I knew a hammam was basically a Moroccan spa but you pay like 15 bucks for a few hours worth of treatments instead of the 500 you might fork over at Bliss. What I didn't know - and I realize this sounds naive - is that we all would be naked in a room together while older, slightly militant ladies ordered us around. One by one, we were picked to lie on this marble table au centre du chambre while one such spa soldier would scrub our entire bodies down, removing what seemed like an entire layer of skin. As I lay there on my stomach wincing in pain while the Spa Sargent lifted up my legs in very precarious positions to scrub, I saw bits and pieces of my dead skin falling softly from the table and the 60 year French teacher giving me a thumbs up from afar.



Don't get me wrong ... Yes, the scrub down was totes painful at the time, but the rest of the hammam experience is pretty heavenly. You leave the place feeling totally rejuvenated and your skin is beaming. I will certainly go back again and again. Though, I believe I shall stick to the nachos with the rest of my nouveaux co-workers from this point forward.



Steamed, cleansed, oiled, soaped, massaged, showered with warm then cold then warm water,

Julia



PS- I was destroyed by my 7th grade class today. They annihilated me. I almost cried.

Can't discuss for at least a week.

Minute by minute

Dear Dennis,

It has been an eventful few days here in Marrakech. Perhaps I will give you only a brief recap in order to intrigue you and get you to call me... but then again you have never been ALL that interested in the details of my life.

Friday morning we had big plans to go the barrage.. even thought we didn't really have much of an idea what the Barrage was. Jules picked me up for Friday half day at my work (which is in the old palace, suitable for me as I am a princess). After haggling with several cab drivers who were totally intent on ripping us off, we gave up. We headed to our local Peach Pit, where we always act surprised to run into the cute French boys we have developed crushes on.. Even though they work there, so seem to be a little confused by our surprise. The owner, we'll call him Jerry since I forgot his name, has a lab named Whiskey who is, obviously, the true object of my affections. He invited us, which we are beginning to realize in Marrakech means not so much asking as commanding, to visit his Riad that night. As he runs with the French crew that Jules and I are desperate to be a part of, we immediatly accepted.

We then headed bravely into the Medina to visit the Musee de Marrakesh and the Saadian Tombs. We allowed ourselves a half hour to find it (supposedly right inside the souks) but instead it took almost two. To get to it, you have to weave though the many alleys that seem just wide enough to fit the two of us, but amazingly somehow also fit donkeys carrying carts of fruit, motorcycles, and a few cars. It is really a bit terrifying as I tend to space out a bit while walking and this really is the worst place for it. We asked directions at every corner and were just told go left, go left and then ask again.

We eventually found it and the museum was lovely and had tons of winding hallways with weird Moroccan modern art, but way more importantly, we met Harry. Harry is from Minnesota, he is handsome, he is smart, he was not wearing shoes that made me cringe.. Harry was perfect. Julia and I both briefly and individually planned our lives with him and then asked him what brought him to Morocco. Study abroad in Spain. Twenty years old. Almost.

Then we went to the Riad where Jerry, who seemed to forget he had invited us for an appetizer, left us with his father who loved to smile and spoke little English. We all smiled at one another a lot over a glass of wine, and then Julia and I excused ourselves in French.

Off to the Trattoria for dinner, where my husband, the owner, treated us to dinner. This meant he ordered the whole menu for us. After dinner, we went along with him and his friend, and older German lady whose story is a bit of a mystery to us, to his house. We drank wine, and watched MTV Idol. Watching "Lemon Incest," while Jules tries in vain to explain why she thinks it is a bit inappropriate for a father and daughter to be in bed together like that.. Too tired to speak broken French, I insisted we return home to rest up for our next day in the Ourika valley..

In the next minute by minute, Jules will fill you in on the break up of my marriage with Mohammed (who is, incidentally, on her facebook page if you would like to catch a glimpse and also who, incidentaly, is married), our short lived modelling careers for Pasha (yes, that's the biggest nightclub in all of North Africa), our visit to the lime farm, and Morocco's love for Norah Jones and Traci Chapman.

Missyouloveyou,
Megan

Table for 2, please. Not.

D D,

Our telephone convo was just "cut off" as I started to tell you all about my date this week.
That's right, my little mentee... I went on a real live, boy and girl dinner date. I assure you, this wasn't any ordinary date, though. The young man (and by young, I mean tres tres young... why, he's just turned the vibrant age of 23) is the athletic director at my school, which is not to be confused with the gym teacher, mind you. Anyway, without hurting any one's feelings, I will just say that we have absolutely nothing in common. Zilch. I'm not sure why he asked me out after I told him that I don't watch football and he responded in total disgust, "well, what do you DO then???" Anyway, upon meeting him at the restaurant, we ran into our school librarian, who is a very sweet, grandfatherley older man. We invited him to join us for a drink. He accepted this invitation but instead of staying for one drink, he spent the entire date with us. So my dear Deni, I essentially was on a date with the gym teacher- I MEAN athletic director - and the librarian. While the elder spoke of racial tensions he observed while living in Georgia in the 60's, the young professeur des athletes regaled us with tales of his freshman year binge drinking and how disappointed he was at the decline of his universities rating as a party school since his departure.
I also invited Megan to crash the date half way through, and she brought a friend. As we all sat together, this Motley crew of Motley crews, awkwardly sipping wine and commenting vacantly on the lamb tagine, my young friend whispered in my ear, "Just remember, age is just a number, Julia. What happens in Marrakech, stays in Marrakech..."
I can't help but wonder if he whispered almost those same words to another gal while on spring vaca in Cancun but a few months ago...

Aging gracefully,
Mrs. Robinson